


Marry Me Fucker

by scottishtragedies



Series: Marry Me Fucker [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gay, Hogwarts, Letter, M/M, Scorbus, mild homophobia, mostly just really fucking gay, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:27:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14187915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottishtragedies/pseuds/scottishtragedies
Summary: Scorpius proposes to Albus through writing.





	Marry Me Fucker

We were 11. 

 

You seemed intimidated by me, until I shared with you all the jelly slugs and fizzing whizbees my mum packed me for the year. You would laugh when I made a stupid pun, you gave me hugs when I was upset about my mum. We would walk the halls between classes, talking shit about the arsehats who dared insult the charms lesson we had just left. 

 

We were friends, and I was happy.

 

We were 12. 

 

We ran to history of magic together, stupid boys, still laughing about the potion we managed to explode two classes previous. You would take me to watch you fly before dinner, practising and practising for quidditch tryouts next year. I pretended to be watching your form, but in reality I didn’t really know shit about quidditch. I was subconsciously focusing on your face (and body) the whole time. 

 

Were were  _ best _ friends, and I was glad.

 

We were 13. 

 

I was crying. You held me tightly, and promised you would come to her funeral. On Valentine’s Day, I found notes in my shoes, stuffed into the ends. I read them, and although the handwriting looked almost familiar, I didn’t think anything of it. I joked to you about wanting to marry whoever had written those eloquent notes (‘ _ roses are red, i hate professor slughorn, you are cute’ _ ), and I thought your blushing had just been second-hand embarrassment for me stating I wanted to marry someone at thirteen. Still, we were closer than ever. Running the grounds at night after stealing James’ cloak, skipping class because we had both miraculously come down with dragon pox (bless Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes). 

 

We were inseparable, and I was thankful. 

 

We were 14.

 

The moon glistened on the lake around us, and I kept complaining about how cold the water was. When we got out, you gave me your sweater. I never gave it back. It smelled like you, cinnamon and lavender and rain and chocolate. 

 

We were still best friends, but I was starting to realise that I wanted to be more than that. 

 

We were 15. 

Our hands had grazed on the astronomy tower, and I would’ve done anything just to hold yours, even if you pulled away. If I could’ve held it for half a second, even less, I would’ve been alright. 

 

I was rambling to you about stars, about space. Things I had learned from the endless astronomy books in the library at home. I pointed to the sky, and I had mixed up the constellation Lyra with the Little Dipper. You said to me “What’s the point in looking at all these stars if the brightest one is right next to me?” You blushed more than I have ever seen you blush before, but I’m almost fifteen thousand percent sure I had blushed deeper. 

 

We were running past the Black Lake, I was in tears, and I was caught off guard when you pulled me behind a mountain of rocks and driftwood and you kissed me. I told you I was crying about Rose, upset that she would never want me. I lied to you. It was complicated, my dad and I had been writing to each other about.. things. Feelings (my dad would kill me if he found out that I exposed he actually has human emotion, so let’s keep this hush-hush). I was in denial for a year, but he told me there was no point in that, that it would only tear me apart. I had come to terms with things, and that’s when I started crying. You kissed me, and, despite the shock, I kissed back, with everything in me. 

 

We were  _ really close _ friends, and I was ecstatic. 

 

We were 16. 

 

I remember my entire body shaking, hot from the anxiety of what I was about to ask. I was worried you would make fun of me, so I tried to joke about it. I think my exact text had read ‘date me fucker’, and I was surprised you didn’t think that so out of character for Scorpius Malfoy. You responded: ‘i fucking will u cock’. I ended the conversation with ‘cunt’, and then I’m pretty sure we met up at the park near your house and snogged. 

 

We were boyfriends, and I thought I could never be happier. 

 

We were 17.

 

You came over to my house during Christmas Break. You showed my dad how to use the new telly he got, which wasn’t exactly _new_ (the look on his face when you told him it was from 1953? Bloody hilarious). We ended up watching this muggle children’s film called _The Little Mermaid_. It was lucky dad had gone to dinner with the Zabini's. I’m positive all of our snogs and cuddles would have been extremely awkward with him in the house. We got drunk on sparkling apple cider, high on mint chip ice cream, and shitface wasted on love. We danced to _Hey There, Delilah_ by The Plain White T’s and Elvis’ _Can’t Help Falling in Love_ after the movie, our legs numb from resting on the couch for so long. I tripped over your feet about six thousand times, and we laughed it off, and you would steady me again, hold me close, and tell me absolutely nothing. And you didn’t need to say anything, because your eyes spoke volume. I think that night was the first time I ever said ‘I love you’. And I meant it. 

 

We were lovers, and I wanted it to last forever.

 

We were 18. 

 

At graduation, I told you I was travelling to France. I didn’t say for how long, didn’t even tell you where in France I was going. It was a vague statement. My dad had to leave for an assignment from Gringotts, and he wanted me to come along. Nan Narcissa couldn’t have me stay with her, and I didn’t want you to know that I was so dependant on my family for a place to live, especially since I was of age. I was an idiot, a complete cockpot for not telling you, for not admitting that I wasn’t independent enough because I was so nervous about living without my family. I couldn’t admit that weakness, and I regret every ounce of it. 

 

I called you from my apartment in Avignon at one in the morning around a month after I left. It was so nice just to hear your voice, even if I knew you were pissed at me for disappearing. We owled practically daily, but you and I both knew that it wasn’t enough. Still, I was a downright mess after you spoke into the transmitter ‘Maybe we can resume things when you return, but right now, I need a break’. I muttered a quiet ‘I love you’, but it was after you had hung up. 

 

We were back to friends, maybe even just acquaintances, and I was a wreck. 

 

We were 19. 

 

James told me you had gotten a job at Obscurus Books in Diagon Alley for the summer. I pretended to be surprised when I saw you dusting bookshelves, organising materials by author when I walked inside. I said I was in to look for a copy of  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _ , but we both knew that was bullshit. I had seven copies in my room alone. You told your manager you needed a smoke break, even though you didn’t smoke. When we were outside, we talked as if we had never been best friends. The air was tense, and the conversation felt almost stiff. You asked me to go to dinner with you and Lily that night, and I agreed. After dinner, it felt like things were back to normal. Almost. 

 

We were friends, and I felt better. 

 

We were 20.

 

I was working part time at the Ministry in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, as Arthur Weasley had cut back his hours. The Ministry was practically desperate for employees, and dad suggested I apply. I didn’t know you had earned yourself a job in the Auror office, however. I got excited to see you in the elevators, in random meetings Madam Granger had called. But I was starting to get nervous around you again. Like back at school. Back at school when I fancied you. 

 

For the most part, I tried to ignore our relationship. I tried to block the memories of kissing you between classes, of blushing when you called me adorable on rickety swing sets. We had only ever been friends, nothing more. 

 

I was walking to the Ministry entrance when you had managed to catch up with me, you also on your way to work. I was crying, but this time I told you the actual reason: Nan Narcissa had died. You knew how much she meant to me. You snatched my hand, pulled me into an alley, and you kissed me. I kissed back. 

 

We were a complicated mess, and I was crazed. 

 

We were 21. 

 

I was working in the States with MACUSA after that muggle aeroplane had gone out of control and went off course, and the pilot had claimed it was ‘witchery’. We owled weekly, pages and pages of stories and emotion in very letter. I remembered writing you on my last day, and again, anxiety flooded me. I was shaking, sweating, and I’m sure my usually neat script that had presently been a scrawl of partially smudged ink only proved that. ‘Date me fucker’ I wrote, and I sent it. I regretted it for days, and when your next owl arrived to my house in London, I left it unopened for a week. 

 

It was a short letter, only one line :  ‘i fucking will you cock’. 

 

I responded with one word: ‘cunt’. 

 

We were boyfriends again, and I hoped that we would remain that way, no more treacherous breaks. 

 

We were 22.

 

You took me camping in the Forest of Dean. I had never been, I barely even understood the concept of ‘camping’. Wasn’t it cold? Wasn’t it dark? What if bears ate you? You thought my camping fears were cute. I thought they were horrific. I wouldn’t let you turn off the lantern in the tent, and I practically forced you to spoon me all night, to protect me from the non-existent bears. I told you I loved you again. 

We were content, drunk in love, and I never wanted you to leave my side. 

 

We were 23. 

 

We walking back to our apartment from London Pride when a stranger called us ‘faggots’ as we passed because he saw us holding hands (I’m sure the rainbow face paint really helped with that). My eyes filled with tears and I immediately let go or your hand. I had never been so confident in being gay, and my first Pride Parade was ruined by a drunk man outside a pub. You were always the more fearless one. You grabbed my hand back, refusing to let me pull away, and you kissed me. In front of the homophobic man. I kissed you back, and I managed to keep back most of my tears. At least, until the man had shoved us and tried to land a few punches. When we got back home, you held me as we laid on the couch, nothing playing on the telly, no music dripping from the stereo. Just you, me, and our heartbeats. 

 

We were lovers, and I was unapologetically in absolute love with you. 

 

We are 24. 

 

You’re at work right now, and I told you I was coming in late, that I didn’t need to be there until my meeting with the rest of my office. But, I lied. I have no meeting today, I told my office I’m sick with Scrofungulus. However, once I finish wrapping this up I’ll be on my way. I really hope all of this will fit into an interdepartmental memo. 

 

Albus Potter, I know I say this a lot, but I want to make sure you know I really mean it. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

 

Now, in true Scorpius Malfoy manner, marry me fucker? If history really does repeat itself, I think I already know your answer. 

 

Promise me you won’t leave me, and I’ll do the same. 

 

Je t’aime, Albus. 

 

Love, 

Scorpius. 

 

P.S. 

I know you’re at work, but I talked to Madam Granger and she’ll let you off early. Meet me at the Electric Cinema on Portobello Road as soon as you can, love. They’re playing  _ The Little Mermaid _ . 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> wow i love my gays  
> This was based off of an rp I'm a part of and I wanted to expand on it so yeah!!  
> I might write more? Like, dive deeper into some of the anecdotes from the piece, but who knows. :))


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